The Other Tailor
by LionessInTheSmoke
Summary: When Mycroft Holmes realizes the aftermath of V-Day and his brother's "death" have him at breaking point and without the resources he needs, he goes to the other Saville Row tailor for help. Rating for swears and 'ships and bad Scots. Aye.
1. Mycroft

Gigantic AN - I have seen the film once (to date) and came out thinking "I wish Mark Gatiss could do the stuff Colin Firth does in that." Or that Steven Moffat had that budget to do Sherlock.

Then I thought "Oh! He doesn't have to, because Mycroft knows Harry!" Of course he does, Mycroft knows everyone. Especially if they went to public school or an elite UK university.

And he has an umbrella that has been speculated about since it was first glimpsed being used as an evil prop. And it does look suspiciously like a Kingsman umbrella. But even Mycroft in his thinned-down Gatiss form isn't physically up to being a Kingsman, and never has been. (And he would have failed the dog test too.) So where does the umbrella come from? Watch all those 'ships launching, is it not a thing of beauty?

Anyway. This should have been epic, because these fandoms belong together. Unfortunately, I am not up to writing epic. So, instead here is the start of how John became Arthur temporarily while Harry was "dead", handled Eggsy and met Mary from the American branch (and was of course later horribly betrayed) and how Merlin secretly handled Sherlock (while he was "dead") as he took down Moriarty's network, without actually telling that story at all.

This is the story of a man cheating on his tailor.

Merlin's name is Rupert because I think that is the closest character in the original comic and I couldn't find anything telling me his "real" name.

There is some swearing and implied 'ships _everywhere_, because men in suits are sexy and they know it, but if you squick at that then (seriously?!) what are you doing in either fandom? Also, men in jumpers need to be appreciated more.

* * *

Mycroft was tired and his head was splitting with the pounding of the blood in his temples. He would have liked nothing better than to go home and drink himself into a nice, quiet, oblivious stupor. He had felt more or less like this since the almighty cluster fuck that was V-Day, and it had only gotten worse since his little brother had jumped off a building. Some days were better than others. He was hoping this was going to continue being a relatively good day. He had one more stop to make before he could go home and he was almost at the point of praying that he had finally found the solution to several very tricky problems.

You couldn't have told any of that from looking at him though. He looked calm and as put together as ever thanks to the concealer under his eyes, and you would have had to be a professional to notice that his bespoke suit did not sit as it should. But his last stop was with someone who at least pretended to be a tailor, so he was sure that sign of his unhealthy lifestyle was going to be noticed shortly.

His car arrived on Saville Row, but not outside his usual tailor. He was going to have to spend a lot of money soothing that man's professional pride if word got out that he had been seen frequenting a rival, but Mycroft was not here about a suit today. Mycroft's usual tailor just did not have the particular set of skills that Mycroft required, or the set of circumstances that would allow Mycroft to bargain for the help he needed.

His chauffeur opened his door outside Kingsman Tailors. He got out, careful to conceal his weariness, and straightened his suit. He hung his umbrella over his arm and took a firm grip on his briefcase. He took the stairs to the shop at a speed that was not hurried nor hesitant, but allowed his presence to be noted by the staff within so the door could be opened smoothly for him by an assistant.

"Mycroft Holmes." He said to the man behind the counter and presented him with a visiting card. "I am here to see the interim manager."

The tailor took the card and flicked his eyes to his assistant with a nod.

"Good afternoon, Mr Holmes." He said as the assistant scurried into the back. "Can I at least show you some shirts while you wait?"

Mycroft nodded.

"You can show me, as long as you do not expect me to actually purchase them."

"Of course not Sir." The man replied with a sniff. He knew about fidelity.

Mycroft looked at shirts until the assistant returned to lead him into the back. He was taken to a dinning room and left standing at the door, looking up the table at a man he had not seen in a very long time. A man wearing a jumper.

_How ironic_, he thought.

"'Evening Mycroft, do come in an' hae a seat." The bald man at the head of the table persisted in retaining his Scottish slur, despite having lived many more years South of The Border than North.

"Thank you Rupert." He said, taking a seat in the middle of the table, politely away from the towering heaps of files surrounding the man at the head. He placed his briefcase carefully in front of him. For a long moment, they stared at each other in silence and came to an agreement.

They were both too damned tired to fuck about.

"I ken you hated Gordonstoun as much as I did, so you're nae here to reminisce. An' as awful as that suit looks on you the now Head Boy, your briefcase suggests you hae other things on your mind than our usual services."

"I am here to suggest some solutions to some of our common problems." Mycroft confirmed.

"Which problems in particular?" The man asked, waving his hand at the heaps of files.

"We both have someone pretending to be dead." Said Mycroft. "I am talking about issues relating to this circumstance in particular."

"Hmmm. Not dead? Well, I hae to congratulate you on that one. It was convincing. Ours was just blind luck."

"I have a candidate to suggest for the position of Arthur. I know you hate it and have no one internal who can take over, or you wouldn't even be trying to do it yourself."

"Is this a hostile take over Mycroft?" The scot glared dangerously down the table. "I warn yae, it has been tried before. We are independent. We are staying that way."

Mycroft shook his head, forcing himself not to roll his eyes. Bloody Scottish independence.

"Not a take over. Believe me, my candidate hates me quite furiously at the moment. He wouldn't work with me if I asked him to."

"So who is it?"

"Dr Watson."

The scot leaned back in his chair.

"Oh aye, your brother's..."

"Quite." Mycroft interrupted.

"I'm listening Mycroft. I'll be honest, we are struggling. If yae can sell him to me, I will be inclined to say aye."

"Former military. Excellent marksman. Likes dogs. Doctor. Skilled at handling reckless individuals. Can't help making those around him better people. Natural leadership qualities. Capable administrator. Scottish, at least somewhat."

"I want to take him to bed already." Rupert drawled sarcastically. "What is the downside?"

"He has no sense of style and no idea about tailoring." Mycroft replied. "I mean it Rupert, his jumpers are worse than yours."

Rupert snorted.

"Aye, you look like shite 'n' all." He shook his bald head. "An' he hates you because?"

"I am responsible for Sherlock's 'death'."

"Well yae are good 'n' fucked then."

Mycroft nodded.

"He is grieving. He needs a purpose to stop him ruining himself before Sherlock gets back. I can't be the one to give it to him, despite needing every good man out there. He would reject it from me, hence the need for your independence. I understand your new Galahad is in a similar state over his lost mentor, and a tricky one to handle under normal circumstances. Give him to John to run personally. They are in the same boat, they can help each other stay afloat. He can do the paperwork, he always did for Sherlock, and he can help train prospective candidates, which frees you up on two fronts."

"And for this little miracle yae require what in return, Mephistopheles?"

"I want you to run Sherlock." Mycroft replied, not taking offense at the insinuation.

"And just what is your front page wonder of a fuckwit brother doing that means he needs a handler and requires he be dead?"

"He is dismantling James Moriarty's worldwide crime network. Something that is causing a lot of those brown files you have in front of you."

"Hmmm." Said the scot, tapping his lip thoughtfully. "I take it you mean you want me tae run him personally?"

"Yes. You know he requires special measures. But you will have an advantage."

"Aye? What exactly?"

"John. All you need to do to keep Sherlock in line is feed him intelligence on John. But you must keep John from finding out about Sherlock, it would cost his life, one way or the other."

"God Mycroft!" The man pushed his chair back sharply and began to pace.

"And I want to see Harry." Mycroft said, trying to sound detached.

"Well that just isnae gonna happen this side o' Hell freezing over!" The scot fumed. "What part o' yae thinks that is going to turn out well for anyone?"

"Is he even awake?" Asked Mycroft. "A shot like that... Does he remember anything?"

The question he wanted to ask of course was _does he remember me?_ And Rupert knew it.

"No he's not awake. We can't tell what the damage is yet. That's why we are nae telling Eggsy anything. Nae need to get anyone's hopes up." The scot gave him a pointed look. Mycroft nodded.

"I understand." He said glumly.

"Right." Rupert rubbed his hands over his bald head and let out a deep sigh. "Give me your Moriarty files and hand over your brother. Is he using again? I swear Mycroft, if you are handing me a junkie, _I will hand him back wearing tartan._"

"Not yet. Just keep him fixed on John. Remind him how disappointed he would be."

Mycroft flipped open his briefcase and removed a thick wedge of brown files.

"Aye, and I will pull John in and hae a look at him. See if he is the God's gift to tired techies yae are making him out to be."

"John Watson is an extraordinary man, I wouldn't be handing him over if I had even a chance of keeping him." Mycroft replied.

"You got anyone else you can spare to send our way? We are looking for candidates to replace two knights."

Mycroft shook his head.

"We are shorthanded too. If I find anyone too... _individual_, I will send them your way though."

"That'll do for now then." Rupert said. "Come on, it's agreed and we both have other things to deal with. I'll walk you out and get you a new umbrella on the way past. That one is years out of date..."

Neither of them mentioned _why_ as Mycroft pushed himself tiredly to his feet and followed Rupert to fitting room 3.

"It keeps the rain off." He said defensively.

"Aye. I'll get you a new one anyway. Yae can still keep that one, although it belongs in the museum." He opened the secret door and collected an umbrella from the stock.

"It works fine." Mycroft protested.

"It's been out of amo since..."

"As an umbrella." Mycroft interrupted.

"Stop being so bloody stubborn man! I am nae taking it away from you! Just giving you an option." He thrust the replacement at Mycroft. "Harry would want..."

"Who knows what Harry would want?!" Mycroft fumed. "He's in an artificial coma somewhere and may have no idea who I am."

"Or who anyone is." Rupert added gently. "That isnae personal Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed.

"Thank you for the umbrella Merlin." He said politely. A gentleman is always polite, even if his fellow Old Gordonstounian frequently forgot it. "A word of advice, be careful how you approach John Watson. He is deadlier than he looks and has had some very bad experiences of being kidnapped by people he doesn't know."

"I'll treat the doc with more care than I'll warrant he got from you or Sherlock." Rupert replied, raising an eyebrow.

Mycroft nodded.

"Thank you." He said again, letting the tailor's assistant open the shop door for him.

"I'll be hearing from you nae doubt." Rupert replied as Mycroft left and made his way down the steps to his car.

As soon as the car door was closed behind him, and he felt them pulling off in the direction of home, he crumpled. He looked at the two umbrellas he was holding and forced his mind to be blank. He had no time for the past and no time to be sentimental either. He had handed (or left) everything he cared about to a tailor, and it wasn't even his tailor, trusting him to do what needed to be done, because Mycroft had things to do too. Mycroft had to become the Ice Man and pull his traumatized, decimated, directionless country together before the next megalomaniac had a go, because when it came down to it, Mycroft loved his country (even the Scottish bits) and the idiots he shared it with, and there really was no one else left.

* * *

AN the second - I love Mycroft, BAMF responsible for everyone in Britain. Poor thing.

Despite hailing from North of The Border, I can't write Scots. Too-posh-to-Scots Fail (face palm).


	2. Bonnie

AN I wrote something clean. There isn't even any swearing. Although the usual warning for implications applies.

All that was missing from the current cliche in Sherlock's opinion, if anyone had asked for it, were handcuffs.

Americans generally seemed quite fond of marching Brits down corridors in handcuffs. At least in films. Demonstrating their dominance over their former oppressors. Or whatever. Sherlock only concerned himself with interesting history, which rarely involved politics of any kind except as a motive.

Perhaps Mycroft had told them not to bother, as Sherlock would inevitably escape and leave everyone looking silly. The whole situation reeked of Mycroft in his 'freelancing for the CIA' capacity. Otherwise, Sherlock could think of no good explanation for his current circumstances. Well ... If he was honest, maybe he could, but he was fairly sure no one but Mycroft knew about any of his less than legal activities on previous visits to the States. If anyone else did know about them, he would probably have been busy picking the lock on a pair of handcuffs at this very moment. So, Mycroft it was.

Boring.

His escort, only four men, but they were very large men, slab-shaped and quite solid-looking with wires going to their ears and wearing sunglasses inside, which only reinforced the CIA theory, stopped outside of a door. One of them opened it and indicated Sherlock should proceed alone.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, didn't they realize there were far too many windows in this complex for the 'mysterious meeting' thing to really work? Even if the blind on the door was down.

He stepped into a very dull office and found himself looking at a very unexpected man. A man in a jumper.

"As surprised as I am to say it, it is a pleasure to see you still breathing lad." The man said, scottishly, and adjusted his glasses.

It was a tick Sherlock recognized that indicated he was preparing for a confrontation.

"How did my brother convince you to take me on?" Sherlock asked in confusion. "Have you absolutely no self-respect? He left you both hanging ..."

"Enough of that, thank you." The Scot said firmly. "What is between your brother and I is just that, and not the topic of discussion today."

"But I take it you are to be my handler?" Sherlock dropped himself into the chair on his side of the desk. The whole place looked so ... Seventies, bland, beige, mass-produced. Not a setting either man present was naturally at home in, and the man on the other side of the desk drew Sherlock's eye much more strongly anyway. "I was expecting to be palmed off on someone internal he really despises."

"Still don't understand him at all then, do you?" The man asked, laying his tablet on the desk and leaning back in his chair.

"And you still believe you do?" Sherlock was often surprised just how determined normal people were to believe that anyone in his family functioned according to the rules that bound everyone else. But if anyone actually did understand Mycroft, this man had a better chance than most, and he was not exactly entirely normal himself. Even if his experience really should have removed any illusions he had.

"Rather better than he thinks and considerably better than you allow yourself to." Was the confident response.

"But he is the reason we are both here? You haven't decided to pull me in for weird and nefarious purposes of your own?" Sherlock was well aware that this man did not exactly work within normal parameters either.

"Oh it's him alright, hence the locale. I'm babysitting two of his favorite goldfish."

"Two?" Asked Sherlock.

"Your doctor has joined my organization for the duration of your ... Quest."

"You've got ... Livingston?" Despite himself Sherlock was impressed with his brother's planning, and the Scot's seemingly continuing goodwill towards his family.

"He is going by Arthur at the moment." The man said and slid a photograph across the desk.

It was undeniably John Watson sat at an enormous file-covered desk with adorable frown-lines on his forehead as he clutched a pen tightly in his left hand. He was wearing a green jumper not dissimilar to the grey one the man across the desk was wearing. It looked very much like someone had given him budgets to organize. John was very good at budgets. It also looked like he had just discovered how much bullet-proof tailoring costs. And was about to suffer severe indigestion.

"And who are you these days?" Sherlock asked, slipping the photo into his coat pocket without asking.

"Merlin. And you, my lad, are Bonifacius."

"You have got to be joking."

"Not in the slightest. You have been made my problem, I can call you what I want. I'm going to call you Bonnie." The man grinned.

"You have not improved with age." Sherlock stated flatly.

"Depends entirely on the criteria." Merlin replied calmly. "Your brother sent this. It is your next file. I will not be meeting you every time, you'll be getting some tech, but I had business over here too, so it seemed appropriate."

"You had business ... But if you are Merlin ... He survived!" Sherlock sat back in his chair with a whoosh of escaped breathe. "My brother ..."

"Oh aye. If he didn't have a country to pull together, he'd've needed pulled out of a bottle by now. Highly conflicted beneath the ice."

"And you are going to let that continue? You know what will happen if he flakes. He is the British Government!"

"He is rather more than that at the moment lad. Reading the signs, I think he has taken responsibility for the entire Commonwealth. And no, I am not going to be taking any of his crap, but he is coping, Anthea and I have come to an arrangement and I have rather a lot of other things on my plate right now too."

"You've got two goldfish and a disorientated great white." Sherlock said.

"And that is just in my free-time." Merlin replied, stroking a hand over his shiny, bald head. "Do you want to hear about Arthur?"

"Yes. Everything." Sherlock said.

"He has passable jumpers and is very good at paperwork, presumably out of necessity. He misses you, but he is gainfully employed making my life slightly less complicated in some areas and is not killing himself slowly with alcohol or quickly with any illegally held firearms. The stiff upper-lip will hold for a while longer and when it goes, it will be gradual and we will be there to hold him together. I am going to send him out on something relatively safe and local with one of our young ones soon, so he doesn't think he has joined the civil service by accident. He will be fine and I will provide you with regular updates. You are going to have some very serious grovelling to do when you return."

"Thank you." Sherlock managed in a small, dry voice.

"Hmm." Merlin considered, tapping a stylus on the desk. "You are an absolute plonker aren't you? He lived with you for how long? And you knew how he felt? And did absolutely nothing? He is not only mourning his friend, or even his lover, he is mourning everything you two could have had. You idiot. You both wanted it so badly and you never let yourself ..."

"I didn't exactly have a good example to follow did I?" Sherlock broke in, utterly embarrassed.

"That was 15 years ago!"

"And you haven't fixed it and none of you have gotten over it!"

"We would have taken him back at any time lad. But we at least had him. You better hope Arthur is a patient man because if he moves on before you get back, he will never know what he's missing, and you are going to be gone at least two years from what I have seen."

"I hate you Rupert." Sherlock muttered.

"No you don't Lockie, I am still exactly your type."

Sherlock made an indignant spluttering noise.

"I never had a crush on you!" He said, limbs drawn in protectively. Shoulders suddenly hunched up somewhere near his ears.

"Of course you didn't, I guess there must just be something about your family that means you like to latch on to bisexual, Scottish, crack-shot military, jumper-wearing doctors, but your taste in bisexual, Scottish, crack-shot military, jumper-wearing doctors is vastly different from your brother's, I grant you. I mean, I was air force and Arthur was army." Rupert said sagely. "But then, there can't be that many of us to go around and I've been taken as long as you have known me."

"Stop teasing me, I've never liked it."

"I know, but it is good for you to be occasionally discomforted. Takes down your massive ego a bit and makes you bearable. Read your file, I'll make the tea."

Merlin pushed himself up from his chair and flicked the kettle in the corner of the office on. He waited for it to boil and then made the tea with Tesco's own-brand teabags, quietly observing as he did so. He watched as Sherlock drank from the mug on autopilot whilst soaking up the information from his file. He was through the file faster than the tea and seemed to wake up, suddenly focusing on the 'World's No. 1 Consulting Detective' mug John had had made for him.

"This is my mug." He said, confirming the chip from when it had fallen in the sink was in the right place. "And that was Arthur's tea. Not as good as Arthur makes it obviously, but definitely Arthur's tea. How did you get this?"

"Your brother of course. And watching Arthur make two cups of tea automatically and then throw one away. Now, the sooner you get started, the sooner you'll be back and sorting out the mess you have made of your ... 'flatmate'. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes." Sherlock downed the rest of his tea and completely failed to be discrete about pocketing the mug. "How am I getting to Argentina?"

AN2 - I once had a very young teacher (straight out of training) who had dated the older sibling of one of my classmates. They knew far much too much about each other for the professional situation. Especially as they both knew that if I had not been a student, the teacher would have been interested. Very interesting to watch.


End file.
